


Making It There

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Danny loves his best friend so much that it literally makes him cry sometimes, Danny's drunk and having a lot of feelings, Gen, not a very happy fic but a very cuddly one, post-restaurant angst, vague discussion of chronic illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: When Danny gets drunk after the events of the 200th episode, Steve’s fully ready for him to have a mini-breakdown about the restaurant. Danny has a mini-breakdown about something else instead.





	Making It There

Danny’s gigging. He’s _giggling_. “I can’t believe we just did that,” he gets out, for maybe the third time since they got in the truck, and Steve can’t help but smile. Danny sounds happy. Relieved. Not angry.

Drunk, but not angry.

Drunk’s fine. Been there, done that. Knew enough to stop himself after two drinks and shepherd Danny to the car, and now he’s bringing him home so he can get plastered in peace.

Danny doesn’t get _drunk_ drunk all that much. But when he does, he really does.

More giggling, and then a low glugging sound as Danny pulls straight from the bottle. “Oh my god,” he groans, once he’s swallowed, loudly. “Did you ever—hand in—like, the worst essay on the planet? An’ you’d been—you’d been dreading it for weeks but you—you handed it in an’—it was done, right?” another glug. “This feels’like—feels like that. Hah! Y’know, the sink’s all plug—plugged up in the women’s room again? Guess’what? Not our pr-problem!”

Steve can’t totally believe it either; he also can’t decide if more whiskey would provide an advantage there, or completely the opposite. Or both. He’ll have a chance to find out soon, though, because they’re almost to Danny’s house, and he’s going to join Danny in inebriation more or less immediately.

In fact, by the time he parks, Steve’s out of even the patience to go inside. He kills the engine, reaches blindly in Danny’s direction, and grins as Danny passes him the bottle without a word.

For a little while they drink without speaking. Inside the car all Steve hears is whiskey being swallowed, and Danny’s quiet laughter; outside he hears traffic and wind.

And then, at last: a long, low sigh.

“I dunno—what to do now.”

“I like the drinking plan. I think that’s going well.”

Danny harrumphs, and Steve feels him looking over. “You drink too much for someone with a— w‘tha loaner liver.”

“Probably true.”

In reality it would be best if he didn’t drink at all, but. That’s not on the table.

“What are we—what are we gonna do?”

“Five-0. That was sort of the point.”

“ _After_ , Steven, _Jesus_.”

And maybe Danny’s bitching jinxed him or maybe the timing just worked out this way, but suddenly Steve feels the liquor hit all at once; mostly it’s pleasant but there’s a definite twinge of nausea.

“I don’t think there’s gonna be an _after_ for me, Danny.”

“Jesus. I get that—that you love this job. But you—you honestly don’t think you’ll ever retire? You’re gonna be doin’ this—in another thirty years?”

Steve snorts. “I’m not gonna live another thirty years, man. Let’s be real.”

He expects at least a little push back over that one, but it doesn’t come; Danny doesn’t reply at all, in fact, just sits still another moment before wrenching the door open and sticking his head out. Steve winces, and waits.

But a moment later Danny rights himself, and glowers over at Steve. “Relax, willya? I just hadda spit.”

Steve pulls a face at him, not convinced that that wasn’t an almost-puke, but Danny just sighs again and swings himself down until his feet touch the driveway. Steve follows him inside.

In the living room, Danny takes his shoes off and tucks up immediately in his favorite couch corner. Steve grabs a beer before joining him; suddenly the harshness of the whiskey seems a bit too much to handle.

Bottle in hand, he takes his place on the other end of the couch. Toes his shoes off as well and undoes a few buttons, then curls up and works on his beer while Danny works on the liquor at roughly the same pace.

The giggling’s long over. Danny still doesn’t seem angry, but neither does he seem happy, like before. Steve nudges Danny’s foot with his own.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Danny buries his face in both hands, scrubbing vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, couldja—couldja hold me, please, because I’m—I’m kinda drunk and I’m jus’—I’m too drunk to nah’ be held right now, y’know?”

“You gonna puke on me?”

“Fuck you! You know—you know that I will _not_!”

Steve laughs, and, having put up the token objection, puts his drink aside and opens his arms for his friend to crawl dizzily into. Danny does so. He fits himself into the crevice between Steve and the couch, and buries his face in Steve’s chest.

Privately, Steve can admit that he needed this, too. The last few days have been wild—good, but not unemotional—and this hug is calming him down in ways he can’t quite describe. He lets his eyes shut, on the edge of dozing.

At least until Danny sniffles, and Steve feels something warm and wet seeping through his shirt.

Steve’s eyes snap open. “Hey,” he murmurs, hoping he sounds less scared than he feels. “You okay?”

Danny just grunts, and sniffles again.

“C’mon, man,” Steve coaxes, stomach really turning now. “Nothing’s signed—if you changed your mind—”

“Didn’t change m’mind,” Danny murmurs, working his fingers on the hem of Steve’s sleeve.

“What’s up?”

Danny lifts his head, and Steve takes a good look at his face for the first time in a while: his cheeks and nose are equally pink, eyes swimming, lashes glued together. “What’s up?” Steve repeats, softer now.

“Nothin’. Stop—stop w’the face.” Danny wipes his nose. “’m allowed t’be happy and sad ‘bout—‘bout the same thing, ah’ the same time. I’m allow-allowed to—to be that. You know?”

“Yeah, you are, buddy,” Steve soothes, which just makes Danny go freshly weepy. “ _Hey_. You’re always tellin’ me to talk—your turn, okay?”

“I guess.”

“The restaurant was your dream. You fought hard for it.”

“Yeah.” Two new tears spill down his cheeks; instead of wiping them, Danny puts his head back on Steve’s chest and blots them dry against the fabric. “I don’ think it’s that.”

“Okay. What is it?”

Danny shudders; Steve hugs him tighter. “’s, um—you.”

And, wow. That hurt way more than Steve would have expected—and he would have expected it to hurt pretty badly. “I know I came outta left field,” he gets out, past the sudden, massive lump in his throat. “But I—listen, I’ll think about it some more, if you want—maybe I decided too fast—”

“No no no. No. Iss not—it’s not— just, what you said—it hurt, okay? It really hurt.”

“I was just—being honest with you, Danno—”

“No!” Danny raises his head again; his face is crumpled now. “Not that. Nah’ what you said then.”

“Then what?”

“That you don’t think—you’ll be alive—in thirty years!” Danny blurts, then wrenches upright, hiccupping loudly. “That was not—an okay—thing—to say!”

Oh.

Oh, _Danny_.

Privately, Steve’s already put a number to it; decided that he’ll be more than satisfied if he lives to see sixty. That’ll get him through all three kids’ college graduations. Probably Danny’s retirement, maybe Gracie’s wedding and _maybe_ , if he’s really lucky, a grand-niece or -nephew.

And here Danny’s crying that he might not make it to seventy-two. God, he hasn’t let himself hope for a number in the 70’s since before the transplant, let alone the radiation.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.

“No, fuck you, McGarrett, b’cause now I’m fucking crying, an’ you’re just gonna hafta deal with it!”

Steve hesitates only an instant before he lets himself lean over and kiss Danny’s temple. “Guess that’s fair.”

“That’s fair. I don’t care if it’s not fucking fair, because ’m—I’m really fucking upset now, okay? You have really _fucking_ upset me, Steven.”

Steve sighs. Changes tack. “Listen. Can you listen, please? Danny, if I—if I died tomorrow. No, I’m not planning on it! But if I did—I need you to realize something. Realize that I’ll be leaving behind so, so much more than I ever thought I would. I’ll be leaving behind a family. That wouldn’t’ve happened, if not for you.”

Yeah, that doesn’t help as much as Steve had hoped. Instead Danny bursts into fresh sobs and punches (like, _really_ punches) Steve, in the arm. “I hate you,” he chokes out, “ _so_ fucking much.”

“Yeah. Um. I guess I can’t blame you.”

“Please just, like. Try to live a long time. Okay? I mean it.”

Steve’s arm is actually smarting pretty badly. He pulls Danny close again, and rides out this latest wave of grief.

His shirt is soaked through by the time Danny raises his head. “Changed my mind,” he mutters.

“About the restaurant?” Steve’s too fucking tired for this, seriously.

“No. No. ‘bout the—” He grimaces. “I think I might need t’get sick, a lil’ bit.”

“Oh. Well, let’s not do that here, then.”

Danny nods, and lets Steve get them both on their feet.

Steve carts Danny upstairs, and into the master bathroom; rubs his back while he heaves over the toilet, though in the end there’s no puke, just a little spit-up. Then Steve gets him in the shower, waits for him on the bed. And when Danny tumbles out, dripping wet, dressed only in a towel, Steve gets him in a t-shirt and sweats and towels his hair dry.

After, Danny stares up at him through frizzy bangs. His eyes are red from the whiskey and puffy from the tears—or is it the other way ‘round?—and Steve feels the most ridiculous rush of affection he’s ever felt for the man. Which is honestly, _truly_ saying something.

He slings an arm around Danny’s shoulders. “You wanna talk about it?”

Danny blinks, very slowly. “W’nna fuckin’ sleep.”

“Okay. We can do that too.”

“Imunnabe really h’ngover t’morrow.”

Despite it all, Steve laughs; the sun hasn’t even started to set yet. “Brother, you’re gonna be really hungover at, like, ten o’clock tonight.”

“Fuck. Y’re gonna stay w’th me. Right?”

“While you sleep?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, rubbing Danny’s upper arm. “You wanna sleep sittin’ up?”

“Yeah. Fuck,” Danny sighs, so Steve crawls deeper into bed and leans against the headboard, and more or less drags Danny against his chest. Danny curls against Steve’s side and moans.

“You okay?”

“Stop fuckin’ askin’ me tha’, please. This’s’th’—th’ right call. It is. I jus’ thought too much an’—got sad ‘bout some other stuff.”

“I know you did, buddy. Shit happens.”

Danny nods, then goes completely still. In Steve’s arms he’s heavy and overwarm, and smells of soap and whiskey.

When he speaks again, his speech is clearer. Still there’s an overabundance of cadence, not to mention of emotion, that keeps him from sounding fully sober.

“I know I’ll never get married again.” Danny sighs. “At the end of the day I’m not gon’— I’m not going to have a wife, to—I dunno, be— to be fuckin’ old with, you know? To spend—the fucking December of my life with, as they say.”

“People don’t say that, Danno,” Steve whispers, only because if he doesn’t say something he’s going to implode. Danny doesn’t respond.

“But I had sucha—such a clear picture, of you an’ me. So _old_ , like, fuckin’ old. Such a clear _fucking_ picture that someday we’ll be eighty together, sittin’ out on your beach an’ shootin’ the shit, pissin’ each other off—such a clear—clear picture, Steve. And you don’t think that’ll happen, do you? You don’t think that—that thing I see—that it’s something we can look forward to? That it’s somethin’ that can keep us going?”

Steve’s eyes are dry; it’s not a weepy sort of grief that he feels, but one that’s deep and silent. “What do you want me to say, man?”

“Nothin’. Nothin’. ‘m goin’ t’sleep now.”

“We have a—a legacy together, Danno. We have Five-0. If we make it to that beach, we’ll still—we’ll still have something to talk about. Right?”

“Jesus _Christ_ , I’m not worried about having something to _talk about_. I just wanna make it there. Fuck it. I’m goin’ t’sleep.”

A few minutes pass, in which Steve tries his absolute best to think of absolutely nothing. Then Danny sniffles. For a moment it seems like he’s crying more, and Steve’s stomach lurches; but no, Danny’s definitely sleeping, just stuffed-up from earlier. He’ll probably be snoring before too long.

The realization that Danny’s finally conked out overpowers Steve like a drug; it’s hours away from a civilized adult bedtime, but as Danny would point out, Steve’s hardly a civilized adult anyway. Carefully he reaches down for the blankets, and tugs them over their laps. Danny rustles slightly at the motion; but Steve just hugs him close again, and he sleeps on. Steve closes his eyes and rests his cheek on Danny’s head.

And for a moment he sees he scene that Danny painted for him: two old men, white-haired and wizened, out by the water in their ancient chairs. Two old men who’ve _made_ it, side by fucking side.

And he wants it; he wants it so badly that the wanting is a poison in his guts. Is the thing that will finally end him. Wants it so badly that he can hardly stand to think about it; and still, there’s a calmness about it that he clings to, despite the rest.

It makes no sense, that he should find comfort in that daydream. Especially not when the thing he needs comfort from is the knowledge of how impossible a dream it is.

It makes no _goddamn_ sense that he should curl up inside of that daydream, to sleep.

And still, he does.  

**Author's Note:**

> Presented without comment, mostly because I'm too damn tired to think of one. Hope y'all enjoyed :)


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